Depressed People Make Me Sleepy

I know what his diagnosis is. I’ve known from the moment he walked in, head hanging, eyes drooping. His sad demeanor was enough to make even me want to cry, and I don’t cry. I hadn’t had a really good cry in years. I tried making myself cry from time to time. I thought it would help clear my head and allow me to let go of some of the stress and baggage I’d been carrying around. It was my therapist who pointed out to me during one of our forced encounters that I carried everyone else’s responsibilities and burdens. I had a habit of making everyone else’s problems my own. I liked her. I don’t know why. I envisioned myself telling her every secret that I had tucked away for no one to see. There was something comforting about her that put me at ease. The‎ only problem was that she was a therapist, just like me. She’s not my friend, my confidante, or my go-to home girl from around the way. She is just a therapist. What we do is a job. We grab at whatever we can, build rapport, check a few boxes, and hope that the client can eventually solve his or her own problems. How sincere could she really be? My uncertainty couldn’t let me speak. So for the first few weeks of our relationship, we mostly just sat. I was seeing her weekly to meet my mandatory personal growth hours. It was a school requirement for all doctoral students. They wanted us to get to know what it was like to be on the other side of the room, I guess. I gave her just enough of me to satisfactorily earn the money I was paying her. Somewhere along the line, things changed. When my thirty weeks were up, I wasn’t ready to go. I still didn’t want to talk about anything. But I didn’t want to go‎. I was sitting at my computer when he came to the door. “I’m finished eating,” he said, “Do you mind if I have a smoke?’ No, I said, go ahead. It amazed me when I initially began working here how these people, who were in crisis, homeless, and down and out, always managed to have a cigarette. That’s one of three things mentally ill patients always have access to. Most of them had no income at all, and the ones who did often spent it before it even cleared their accounts. And yet there were always cigarettes to go around. He took his time getting through the door, stopping to say hello to the other residents and initiate several short conversations. He has no idea how much work I need to do. He doesn’t care. None of them do. Most of them come in here with such an entitled attitude. It makes it hard for me to empathize with them. They think that we’re all here for them. We are, but not in the ways that they want us to be. They want us to solve all their problems, make everything better. They come in expecting us to find them housing they can’t afford, a job they won’t be able to keep, and an endless surplus of money they haven’t earned but believe that their disability entitles them to. I’m on the verge of a break. I have everything I want, and I love my job. Really! I love working with the people who come through these doors, but some days, like today, I’d rather be anywhere but here‎.